Moments of Solace
by misscam
Summary: “But these moments of solace They won’t last They cannot last...” A fire targeting Grissom triggers the hunt for an arsonist whose sinister quest soon turn deadly. But who would seek solace in flames and the misery of others? GSR.
1. Prologue

Moments of Solace

By Camilla Sandman

Disclaimer: Not mine, never has been. No money is made off this little story, and I promise I will return the characters whole and recognisable. More or less. I might have been a little mean to poor Grissom. Um, will an Aussie beetle make it up to him?

Author's Note: All blame must be shifted onto my roommate, who made me watch CSI in the first place.

I use British spelling. Yay for British spelling.

Prologue

II

Consciousness flickered like a candle in the wind, his body desiring the unfeeling darkness, his mind desperately calling to him to wake up, to move.

Fire. There was a fire.

The heat wrapped him like a blanket, unrelenting in its embrace. Even the floor was heated, burrowing into his skin by the feel of it.

Confusion mingled with the pain, and for a moment he did not even know where he was. Groaning, he tried to roll over, but white, blinding pain flashed through his skull.

Home. He'd been heading home, stopping at a grocery store.

The ghosts had come as he had stepped through the doorway, bringing swift pain down upon him. He knew they had not been truly ghosts, merely fast very human beings, yet his mind settled upon the image with ferocity.

He had never believed in ghosts. Ghosts were fleeting, untouchable, untraceable and silent. No evidence for their existence, and thus, they did not exist to him.

He had believed in justice to the dead, but for the sake of the living. There were no ghosts, no whispers from beyond the grave.

He had not believed in the whispers that came to him sometimes in the night, pleas for justice for those who got away. That was not why he kept reminding himself of those who did get away. It was not, he had told himself forcefully so many times he believed it.

Sara believed in ghosts. She did not call them ghosts, but her belief shone in her eyes like the brightest star. She believed in justice for the dead. They haunted her at times, and more than once he feared the starlight in her eyes would become a wildfire and devour her.

He'd seen it happen. He'd felt the flames of a burnout lick against his own skin; they all did at some point. It came with the job. Pain and whispers.

Pain…

He whimpered, though he wished not to. The smoke burned in his lungs. Soon it would consume him, and he would die. His inner eye was already calculating the damage, showing him glorious pictures of burned inner organs. He knew all too well what it would look like.

The irony of it all swept through him, taking away his last strength. The smoke engulfed him now, flames eating through the wood. He wondered briefly if he would get to smell his own flesh burn. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, flesh to flames.

But his mind was trailing again, away from the fire, away from the pain, away from his body, like a fleeting ghost leaving an empty shell.

Would Sara hear his whispers, behold his ghost with her starlit eyes, brimmed with pain? She was beautiful even in pain. Was it wrong to think that?

He coughed violently, his fingers clutching onto the hot wood. The pain felt distant, but he clung to it. As long as he felt pain, he was alive.

Suddenly the floor twisted away from him. He was moving, dragged across the florr, and something soft swept across his forehead. Air. Fresh air. It fought its way into his lungs, cold as ice. His skin burned, but his lungs shuddered. Cold and hot.

Odd, that. On average he should feel fine, he thought absurdly.

His senses slammed back into full force, and he nearly cried out. His left arm felt twisted – broken? – and pain thundered through his feet. He could hear the flames now too, eating, always eating.

"Grissom? Gris? Gris?"

The voice was insistent, distressed, familiar. He fought to open his eyes, lashes heavy with sweat. A cool hand swept over his forehead, cotton tickled his cheek.

"Grissom!"

"Sara," he managed. Her breath rasped against his cheek; rapid, painful.

Pain. Always pain. He was used to seeing the scars of pain, to analyse them and determine how they had been inflicted. A puzzle to be solved. Always from the outside, never from within.

There was solace in that, in the world he had constructed. He had thought it solace enough. For a long time.

He wished he had kissed her. Just once, so that he could remember the feel of it now. Her last words to him had been angry, hurt. He briefly wondered if she had forgiven him, if fear had replaced her anger or merely fuelled it.

"The ambulance is on its way, I called. It's coming, it's coming..."

He clung onto her voice, biting into the cotton fabric, stifling the pain. Darkness became grey, grey became black. The sky. Star-filled, beautiful sky. Whispering, treacherous sky. There was peace in the sky. There was never peace below it.

Tired. He was tired. The hands were still soothing his face, cool to the touch, caressing tired skin. He could sleep forever here.

He wished he had kissed her. Just once, so he could remember.

"Grissom," Sara said insistently, but he was falling, falling, falling…

There was peace in the darkness.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

He had always loved flames. Not merely for the heat, or the intricate patters of yellow and red, but for the sound. From the low hisses to the loud cackles, it was a symphony of brilliance to his ears.

The wild ones were the most magnificent, towering against the sky, smoke spiralling upwards in all the shades of grey and black.

At first the fires were merely a diversion, a method of solace he sought rarely. There was comfort just knowing he could seek it. But the need grew as the emptiness in his life grew. To all those watching him from the outside, he seemed successful. Fortunate Mark Grundy, a life to envy.

But he did not feel alive. Only the flames gave him that. He sought them as often as he dared, fear mixing with anticipation until his body was aflame with the fire also.

All that had been wonderful, but never before had he felt as he did now, palms sweaty and heart thumping painfully in his chest as he drove, not quite knowing where.

Killer. He had killed. He had not meant to, but as he had swung off the highway, he had suddenly seen an all too familiar face. Gil Grissom, older, but still the same, still with judgemental eyes.

Mark remember those eyes all too well. Resentment had bubbled quietly, but he had not thought to act upon it.

Even as he thought that, he had pulled up by the small shop. A broken streetlamp offered him the cover of darkness, his steps soft on the wet ground. Sprinklers, perhaps, for it had not rained.

He had not meant to kill. He had not meant to do anything but watch, perhaps leave a scrape in the parked car, a cheap little revenge. He had not meant to kill... Had he?

Grissom was on the phone, back turned and in that everlasting moment, Mark had moved. The tin can made contact with flesh and bone, and Grissom fell forward.

"Hey!"

The store manager bolted from his safe haven behind the counter, springing forward. He got two steps before Mark reached for his gun and fired, again and again, until there were no bullets and still he pulled the trigger.

The man looked baffled for a moment before pain took hold of his face, and soundlessly he screamed. Blood fell to the ground, the tiny drops splattering, the fat drops pooling. Such a vivid colour. Almost like the flames.

There was such a silence, broken only by Mark's rapid breathing. In that one moment he had felt more terrible then there were words for, and yet, so alive. His knees had nearly buckled under him as he tried to steer the gun towards Grissom. No bullets, yet he tried to pull the trigger. The metallic click broke the silence, and he awoke from one trance into another.

Already his body was gripped in the fever of the flames. Some petrol, a lighter, and the symphony began.

He took the tin can with him, a momentum, a reminder. His shoes he threw into the fire as he always did. One day that would doom him, he knew, and the thought heightened his fear, heightened his excitement.

He nearly threw up in the car as he fought it back onto the road. He did not care if he had been seen then and there. Nothing mattered but the fever, the knowledge that he had killed once and the flames were killing once more for him.

Never had he even dreamed that killing could be so horrible and so wonderful.

II

The sounds were muffled, as if she was under water, adrift in a sea of treacherous emotions threatening to drown her. Heat tickled her skin, as if a fever had taken hold of her. She wished for nothing more than to sleep, dreamlessly, numbly.

She could not, of course. She had to sit here in the crowded hospital waiting room, waiting… Waiting for any news, any hope, feeling as if it was all slipping away from her with each breath, while Nick and Warrick were at the crime scene with some of Ecklie's people.

The crime scene.

Her fists balled and for a moment she wished she could be there, analysing rather than reacting. But perhaps that would have been worse, to see blood and not know if it was Grissom's. She wasn't sure if she could have managed.

She was not sure she was managing.

It had all happened so fast.

Gunshots over the phone, pulling up in her car, seeing the flames, charging in without thinking, finding Grissom by a pool of blood and a dead body, the agonising wait for the ambulance, the smoke, the blood, the fear…

All a blur, tied up in a knot in her heart, making every heartbeat painful. It was as if she had seen it all from the outside, and only now had returned to her body to feel the anguish.

He could not die.

Unbidden, tears came to her eyes. She wiped them away with her shirt, it was already ruined. Ash streaked it, and the flames had taken their share. Some of her skin seemed to burn at the memory still.

In vain, she began to brush at the ash, as if getting it off would erase what had happened. It did little good, of course, and she only managed to make it worse.

"Sara?"

Slowly, a voice penetrated and she looked up at Catherine's face.

"They won't tell me anything," she whispered.

Catherine said nothing, merely took a seat, looking stunned and… Angry? Frustrated? It was hard to tell behind the mask of steeled determination.

"Someone had hit him over the head," Sara muttered. The words forced themselves out, spilling over each other. "Blunt weapon. The other guy was shot. The fire was raging when I got there, I…"

The words died away and she leaned against Catherine, unable to sit upright any more. It hurt. It all hurt.

Outside, the stars shone on as a thin crust of red and orange spread over the horizon. Flames and blood and a new morning.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

'There won't be another death this morning,' she thought, and darkness seemed to lift around her.

He was going to be all right. A broken arm, some burns, a concussion… Wounds that would heal, bones that would mend. He was going to be all right.

Relief surged through her body, mixing with anger and resentment. Whether it was directed at him or the bastard had done this, she wasn't sure. Perhaps both. Perhaps herself.

Catherine was still on the phone with Warrick, no doubt being filled in on the crime scene findings and relating the good news.

The sun was rising, and for a while Sara let herself bask in the pale orange glow from the window, staring out and beyond. He was going to be all right.

Was she?

"They've found a badly burnt shoe," Catherine declared, coming up behind. "They don't think it's the victim's or Grissom's."

"A shoe?"

"A shoe."

There was something familiar about that, but she was too tired to think.

"Can we see him?"

She asked without thinking, driven on need and emotion rather than mind. If Catherine noticed the raw need in the question, she said nothing.

"Doctor Fraser is on call. I think he could be persuaded."

"You know him?"

"Let's just say he was once a fan."

II

The morning spread like wildfire, darkness devoured by light and stars banished by the sun. The moon became a crust of pale silver, fading into blue. Some clouds were out this morning, sailing over the sky lazily, as if they had all the time in the world.

Nightlife fell asleep as the day awoke to the heralds of morning. The cool wind soon gave way to the blanket of heat, wrapping the city, stilling the air.

The media was awake, as always. Another morning, another murder. One dead victim, one in hospital. Attacker unknown. The crime scene was locked off. Possibly an interrupted robbery. Simple, acceptable. One more murder and then the weather.

Mark Grundy watched the news bulletin and knew it was not that simple. It never was. He'd been foolish, careless, not thinking at all. He hadn't planned anything, merely acted. It might ruin everything; his life, his career, his dreams…

He'd been awake all night, sweating under the cool sheets. It had been everything he secretly desired and yet not enough.

His coffee was cold, but he drank it anyway. It tasted slightly bitter. Absentmindedly, he slipped sugar lumps into it, eyes still focussed on the TV screen.

Planning. That was where he had gone wrong. It had been sweet, such a high, such a low, but the thrill of a planned, successful killing…

His hairs stood on end and an echo of the euphoria from last night slammed into his body. Though a pale imitation of what it had been, it was enough. For one shining moment, Mark felt… Alive, bursting with something beyond happiness. He thought of the tin can in his bedroom, his secret trophy. It would be his, forever.

The euphoria died away, leaving him shaking and craving.

The weather had become commercials, blazing colours and sound at him, bringing him back to the real world.

Was there anything to connect Mark Grundy, respectable citizen, to this fire?

The car, if someone had seen it. It was California registered, that might help him. But perhaps discreet arrangement could be made to get rid of it. To be safe.

The shoes. They should have burned up, though. He doubted much would come of any find either, but it left a nagging feeling of unease in his mind. They were common enough shoes, bought on clearance sale. Nothing that could be connected to him, surely.

Gil Grissom.

The man lived (since it was impossible that the store owner still lived, the man in the hospital had to be Grissom), which was the biggest worry. What had he seen? What had he heard?

Mark furrowed his brow. There was nothing to connect Mark Grundy with the young man Grissom had known; yet the possibility was there. He could not risk the tiniest hint of a connection. Grissom would have to be off limit. A man with a grudge would be expected to continue the vendetta. As sweet as it would be…

No, it couldn't be risked.

The fear was wonderful and Mark basked in it, tearing at the sugar pack until it fell apart between his hands. Sugar spilled out, as blood would have. He stared at the small lumps, crushing them under his thumb and evening the spill out over the table. He considered the image of the fire, but the blood came unbidden to his mind. The power of the kill. The surprise on the man's face… The knowledge that he, the always overlooked Mark Grundy, had that the power to give death…

Such a wonderful feeling. How much more wonderful could it be when it was planned, anticipated, every aspect considered?

The fever was there again, but it was different this time. Slower, more intense, as if it was building to a stronger fire. He could wait. A little while. Not for the fire, but for the kill. The fire was not enough, not anymore. One more murder. No one would notice.

He smiled as he got up, ready to walk out into the world and wear the mask of normality once more.

II

The heat was what awoke him. Or perhaps it was the slow, steady heartbeat rhythm, filling his body until he found himself breathing to match it. For a while, he merely listened, content to be the rhythm and feel nothing.

Slowly though, pain edged its way into his mind. It was not insistent or sharp, but it was always there, nibbling away. Burning. A burning pain. Heat.

His mind begun to calculate what kind of damage would create such a pain, taking into account the slight numbness that indicated painkillers. Second degree burns? It felt as if it originated in the legs.

The ceiling came into view slowly, becoming fine-tuned and allowing him to focus. It took him a while to adjust to the sharp light stabbing at his eyes, some sunlight seeping in through the window. Somewhere distantly, he heard voices.

The room was white, his hands red, as if sunburned. He could flex his right arm, though there was a slight pain attached. The left felt broken and a quick look confirmed it had been plastered. Lifting his head, he winced at the sudden pain blazing through his skull and his arm.

"I would be careful with that," a voice said dryly. "You could knock someone out with that arm."

"Catherine," he breathed.

"I know you were hoping for a cute nurse," she went on, entering his field of vision. Her hair looked slightly muzzled, and the dark circles under her eyes spoke of little sleep. Behind her, a shadow leaned against the wall.

"Hey," Sara offered weakly, forcing a smile out as she stepped out of the shadow and approached the bed. Her cheeks looked tear-streaked and there was a smudge of ash on her chin. He resisted the urge to reach for her and brush it off.

"What…" he began, interrupted by a dry cough that sent his head spinning.

"You were knocked out," Catherine answered, crossing her arms. He could see a glimmer of rage behind her calm features, and then it was gone, leaving only a ripple in her voice. "Store owner was shot at least eight times."

"Brass thinks maybe it was a robbery in progress," Sara cut in. Her voice was strangely even.

"No." He shook his head, and grimaced as the pain came surging back. "He came in after me. If he was a robber, he could have waited or shot me first, in the back. This was not a robbery."

Neither looked surprised, which told him they knew more than they were letting on. He wondered where Nick and Warrick were, though he had his suspicions.

"Brass will be by later, as soon as the doctor allows him," Catherine replied, avoiding any comment on his statement. She was thinking the same thing, then.

"And the doctor allowed you two in?"

The two women exchanged glances, Sara looking slightly bemused for a moment.

"Old acquaintance. He owed me a tip," Catherine simply said, then leaned down to look him sternly in the face. "You need rest, Grissom."

He tried to smile reassuringly, but on reflection, probably not the smartest thing to do. His head started ringing again and he groaned before he could stop himself.

"We better…." Sara began, gesturing towards the door.

"We better," Catherine agreed, patting his shoulder for a moment. "We'll feed your bugs."

"Thank you," he replied, but his eyes were on Sara. She returned his glance hesitantly, then walked over. He tried to read her face and failed, unable to penetrate the wall of pain on her face.

"Thank you," he said again. She nodded slowly, but her expression didn't change. Catherine slipped soundlessly away, leaving only Sara to gaze at him with her dark eyes.

"I… I came as fast as I could," she offered, biting her lip.

"I know."

"I better go," she muttered. Her fingers brushed against his for a millisecond and then she was gone, leaving him only with the slow rhythm of his breathing echoing in his ears.


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

It was hot.

The heat seemed to crawl under her skin, buzzing about in her blood and frying her brain. Catherine found herself longing for her cool bed and a cold shower. Perhaps she'd have a few drinks to chase away the image of a burned body that could have so easily been Grissom.

The aircondition greeted her with a sigh as she stepped into the hallway. It didn't take her long to find Warrick, hunched over a desk and with an air of intense concentration over him. She allowed herself to take in the sight for just a moment before walking over.

"Hey," he greeted her with, throwing a quick glance at her before returning his attention to the blackened object on the table. "I hear Grissom is okay."

"Yeah. So this is the shoe," she observed.

"Yeah. Take a look at this – you can still see the size."

"46?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "That's a lot of feet."

"European size," Warrick replied.

"So either he's been to Europe lately or he has expensive taste."

"Or both."

"Anything else?"

Warrick shook his head. "Ashes, most of it. Ecklie's team is still at the scene."

"This is our investigation," she said a tad more harshly than she had intended. She was not about to let Ecklie steamroll over them. "Sorry. Long night. Where is Nick?"

"He's looking at some tire tracks we found nearby. Sara was just in."

"I thought I told her to go home."

He gave her a soft look, as if he could sense her exhaustion. "You should get some sleep. Ecklie has been trying to chase us all home."

"He could try," she said dryly. "Thanks, Warrick. Keep me posted."

She left him to his work, wishing she had some vital clue to focus on herself to keep her mind still. It kept skipping from thought to thought, muddled and slow. She really needed some sleep and to just hold Lindsey for a minute.

But first, find Sara and chase the girl home.

The lunchroom was quiet and filled with light. The fridge hummed softly on an unknown tune. She leaned against it for a moment, cherishing the cool surface.

There was a single light on in Grissom's office, blinking as if it were about to die. And head on his desk, Sara slept.

Catherine regarded her for a moment, then slipped in quietly, turning the light off. The darkness embraced the room as she left.

Sometimes, you just had to let them sleep.

II

Sara dreamt of a butterfly.

The sun had disappeared and it flew in the darkness, unseen by all. The moon was cold, but somewhere a fire burned. The stars whispered. She was supposed to remember something. The butterfly remembered. The bugs always remembered.

Grissom had told her.

He was in her dream, a shadow, a moonbeam, fleeting, always fleeting. She tried to reach him, she always reached for him.

She caught only darkness and fire. The flames burnt her, the darkness ate her.

She awoke panting, and for a moment the darkness seemed to overwhelm her. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she the familiar shelves and various bug obsessions that made up Grissom's office.

Her neck hurt and the rest of her body promised pain to come as well. The desk was warm from her touch and slightly slick with cold sweat. The room smelt faintly of chemicals and something Grissom-esque. She could feel his presence – sometimes she thought his presence was almost stronger here than around the man himself. Grissom was his office.

For a moment, she merely sat there, relief and anger and confusion and desire and fear all running through her. She was tired, and sleep offered no solace. Only muddled dreams and distant screams of victims calling to her. Always to her.

The thought of Grissom's screams being the ones to keep awake sent a cold shudder through her body. He was going to all right. The doctors had all assured them of that. But he had looked so distant and pale, a mere shadow of himself.

The chair groaned as she got up. In the grey light she could tell it was afternoon, soon to become evening. Perhaps she could stop by the crime scene, then come back here.

She slipped out quietly. The sun had just vanished behind the horizon, leaving the moon to watch over the earth in its absence. Her car winked at her with reflections of the streetlights.

She drove slowly, as to not introduce any flashbacks of the desperate ride the night before. If she hadn't badgered him about where he was, slightly angry that he had headed home without telling her the test results of a case they were working… He could have been dead now.

When she had seen him alive in that damn hospital bed, she could have kissed him. Hugged him and clung to him, falling asleep in his arms. She was sure she could have slept well for once there, near life rather than death.

The crime scene was marked off with yellow tape, easily seen against the blackness of the scene itself. For a moment she nearly turned her car around and headed home. This wasn't just a crime scene. It was a tomb.

Most of the building had collapsed. Badly burned wood cluttered all over the asphalt, swimming in a sea of ash.

A car slowed down just as she stepped out of her own, and she turned to look without thinking. Dark, blue eyes met her own, and then he was gone - into the darkness.

II

He had to see the scene again.

The day had passed slowly, and Mark had itched and feared, his mind churning the scenario out again and again. It was not enough to merely remember it. He had to see it again, smell the echoes of fire and death. His heart demanded it, his mind feared it.

Just one glimpse. It had to be risked, he decided.

It was marked with yellow tape, a woman stepping out of the car just as he drove past. An investigator of some sort, he surmised. He meet her eyes and power rushed through his body.

He knew what they did not. He knew.

The itching did not stop, but it lessened and the power reigned instead. Such power. The ultimate power. To kill. To be feared. To be respected.

Grissom would have respected him. Of course, they could never know Grissom had been the target. Not yet. Perhaps when their investigation had been exhausted. He would not want them to give up. It was much satisfying to know they were trying to catch him but could not, than to know they had given up.

Perhaps Grissom would then know what it was like to try in vain and find the only way out was in blood.

A shudder went through him as Mark suddenly felt the ghost of a kiss on his lips and he nearly pulled over.

He had forgotten for so many years, but now the memories came with his heart finally unlocked. Death brought the memories.

His mother, dying in her bed. Her lips had been cold to kiss, but she had been more alive when dead. He had held her silently, the fourteen year old, not crying, whispering words of love and hatred alike, watching her burn from the inside. Such a fever.

The police had called it shock. Grissom had not. With judgemental eyes, he had know. Know that the boy could have saved his mother with a 911 call, instead of waiting hours for her to die.

They had called it shock and a tragedy, not understanding. No one but Grissom.

The car sped on, darkness embracing his heart. Such a fever.

It raged on.


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The cool air was a blessing coming from the stuffed, sickly air of the hospital. It smelled slightly of rain, Grissom noted – to come or what had been he could not tell.

He took a deep breath, staring out over the city from the hospital parking lot. Somewhere out there was a killer. And the evidence to catch him.

The skies opened, dropping their precious load of life onto the earth. Grissom did not move. He barely felt the tickle of water drops, his mind in an altogether different time and place.

The hospital had not wanted to release him merely a few days after his injuries had occurred, of course, and he suspected Catherine and Sara would be concerned, but he could not have stayed in the hospital bed a minute longer. Thinking, wondering, having no evidence to end speculation with. One more day, and he could possibly have gone mad. His feet itched and the bandage of his head turned quite a few heads, but he felt strong.

He heard the car before he saw it. Water splashed from its tires as it pulled up, brakes screaming as the driver noticed him and came to a stop.

"What are you doing out in the parking lot?" Sara asked, opening the door. She shook her head as water fell on it, sending a few drops his way.

"You're late," he replied calmly.

"What?"

"You're late. You visit every day at 12.27. It's now…" he glanced down at his watch. "12.32."

For a moment she just stared at him with confusion all over her face.

"We got some results back," she finally replied. "Grissom, I thought the doctors said…"

"I'm fine," he said casually, and slid into the seat next to her. "You can tell me about the case on the way back to the lab."

She gave him another long look he couldn't quite read, then she fastened her eyes onto the road and set the car in motion.

"Ecklie will have a fit when he sees you back," she commented lightly. "He's been trying to boss Catherine around."

"It's our case, not Ecklie's."

He closed his eyes for a moment, smelling the burnt flesh once more. The case. It wasn't the sounds or the sight that seemed to stay with him, but the smell. Strange. He had smelled far worse over the years. Decaying bodies, rotten organs… But this was different. Personal. His case.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

She did not seem convinced, but let it drop. For a while there was silence, stretching on. Rain drummed against the front window with ferocity, patters of water shaping before being pushed away by the spoilers. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

"We think we may have a lead on the shoe," she said after a while, lifting her voice slightly to counter for the rain. "It's a British brand named Vegona. You can't get it here."

"Our killer has British connections," Grissom said slowly.

"Or possibly he is British." She shook her head. "It makes no sense, Gris. He knocks you out with a tin can and then shoots the other victim?"

"A tin can?"

She shot him a quick look. "Yeah, a tin can. There were tiny specs in the blood from your wound. But we couldn't find it and there was no blood residue on any of the tin we found in the ashes."

"The killer took the can with him," Grissom translated. "A souvenir."

She merely nodded, eyes still on the road.

The silence felt charged, and he idly wondered why. She looked tired, though she was putting up a good front. He stared at her intently as she pulled up, turning the engine off.

"Did you cut your hair?"

"I had to. Some of it was burnt," she replied, and this time there was no mistaking it. There was pain in her voice.

"Sara…" he said quietly.

"It's okay, I was going to cut it soon anyway," she said frantically. "Really."

Her knuckles whitened as she firmly gripped the car keys, as if trying to crush them in her hand.

"Sara," he said again, and his hand went to hers on its own. She froze slightly at the touch, almost flinching away.

"I like it," he said gently. Her hand was warm under his, her skin soft as he traced a slow pattern with his thumb.

They sat forever there, rain becoming drizzle becoming drips. Until he finally let go of her hand and she vanished into the building without a word.

II

It had been so easy this time.

Strange. Mark had expected the guilt to be worse this time, adding up both murders. Instead, he had felt strangely free, forgiven. As if the second murder erased the feeling of the first.

She had been a brunette before the fire had eaten her hair and flesh. A brunette. Beautiful, though not overly so. He had seen her in a supermarket car park and known. It had been her eyes.

Judgemental. Like Grissom. Like his mother. Such strong eyes.

He had followed her for a day, planning and anticipating, shivering in the grips of a fever that never seemed to break. She was a loner, had nothing but her work and a cat. He had watched her sing to it, silhouetted in the window. So alive.

Beautiful. But the fire was more so, always more so.

She even let him in.

He wondered later if she had seen death in his eyes when he had lifted his gun and swung it at her head. The cat had howled, as if knowing. He had taken pity on it, and rummaging about her kitchen he had found some string. He then tied the cat to a tree outside, patting it before going in again. The fire awaited.

It had felt different this time. The euphoria had not slammed into him, but rather filled up slowly until he could nearly not breathe. The power. The strength. The knowledge. He threw the shoes into the fire with a jubilant cry and hands raised high, feeling the warmth of the fire against his body. Such beauty.

The fire had raged as he slipped away, a small mantelpiece clock in the seat next to him. His prize, his memory. He had been home less than an hour later, just as the rain started once more. And now he sat quietly in the kitchen, staring at his food.

It had been so easy this time. So easy. Snuffing out a candle. Killing a flame to feed the fire.

"Dad?"

"Go to bed, honey," he answered quietly, staring out at the road. "You have school tomorrow."

"Yes, dad."

Her steps echoed away, and he slowly got up, noticing for the first time that the darned cat had scratched his gloves. Next time, he would make sure there were no pets.

Next time…

And he smiled slightly as he turned off the lights, leaving the kitchen to the darkness.

The rain thundered on.


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Dawn had greeted the day, fire on the clouds and the sky, the herald of daylight and banisher of the stars.

The wind surged, swinging ash up from the ground, twirling it merrily, up, up, up and down it came. Like snow. Grey snow.

The sirens had stopped. The lights blinked on, lighting the are in a eerie blue and red. Drawn faces regarded the damage. Another life lost. Another number to add to the statistics, another name to add to the list.

"Joanne Harris," Catherine said quietly. "Twenty-seven. Lived alone after her father died last year. Works part time for a local vet."

Grissom did not answer, staring intently at burnt wood. He'd been unusually quiet since coming back from the hospital, even for Grissom. She knew him well enough to let it go. With Grissom, you had to know which battles to pick. This was not one. He was thinking, she just hoped he'd sooner or later bring them in.

"I found something!" Sara called, leaning down by what had once been a doorway. Warrick was already there with a camera, the flash bright against the black for a second.

"A shoe again," he said as the other gathered around, Nick snapping on gloves.

"A calling card," Catherine observed. "A FBI profiler once told me many serial killers were first serial arsonists."

"An arsonist turned killer?" Nick raised an eyebrow.

"Acceleration," Grissom said simply, getting up. "That shoe will be the same size as our European one. The killer is talking to us. Go listen."

And what that he stalked off.

"Is it just me, or does he seem even more irate these days?" Nick asked, shaking his head.

"Process, Nick," Catherine said calmly. Getting up as well, she watched the group scatter and get to work. Sara had said nothing the whole time and she had Grissom had not exchanged one look yet. They would glance at each other when the other did not, gazes Catherine did not know quite what to make of.

But the tension was catching, that much she could tell.

"Grissom?" she called out, walking over to the grass where he stood, eyes on a tree nearby, focussed, drawn.

"Yes, Catherine?"

"What is going on with Sara?"

His eyes remained on the tree, but she saw a slight twitch on his face.

"Nothing."

"Grissom. She saved your life."

"I know."

"Tell her," Catherine insisted. "You act as if she has a disease, avoiding her. She is feeling guilt because she didn't get there earlier."

He looked confused now, finally meeting her glance. "But it wasn't her fault."

"Tell her that."

He did not reply, and with a sigh she turned around, starting to walk back towards the ashes and the silent, flashing lights. She only got a few steps before he called after her.

"Catherine? Did Joanne Harris have a cat?"

She turned around, turning the flashlight back on. The circle of pale light flickered across the grass as she walked over, following Grissom. Green eyes met her defiantly as they rounded the tree.

"Hello there," she said gently. The cat hissed, though not with much malice.

"He let the cat live. We have an eyewitness."

The cat stared at them both, eyes glittering in the dark, still hissing quietly. An eyewitness, the only eyewitness.

Into those eyes the killer had looked and found compassion. A killer, fond of animals.

"He's human," she said slowly.

"They always are."

She glanced at him, the unspoken sentence hanging in the air like the flakes of ashes.

_It would be easier if they weren't._

II

Mark dropped his daughter off at school, waving to her until she was well inside. He knew it embarrassed and made her secretly fiercely happy at once. Hannah. His little dragonfly, maturing by the day.

He sat in the car for a while, staring at the school and the sky and the trees. There was a light wind, and a slight humidity in the air from the rains the previous day.

If he closed his eyes, he could also smell the burning wood.

Was it too soon to return, to see it again? See his work of art, every beautiful corner of it exposed in the daylight… His mouth dried. It was careless to return. It was risky. The police would be there. He could be seen.

And for all those reasons, he had to.

The area had been partly locked down, of course. He resisted the urge to speed through. That would look odd. He had to look interested yet horrified. All did when they saw the results of fire. They did not understand. They were bound to their fear, without the strength to transcend it.

He passed the scene, eyes nearly watering as he did. It was even more magnificent than the last. The flames had eaten more and more savagely, like a hungry beast. Little would be left. The flames claimed all.

Police swarmed like ants, working in their little patterns. Always the same patterns. Always the same faces. Haunted faces. Pained faces. Faces that no longer cared. They were the cops he befriended. Those he listened to and learned the patterns.

He wondered briefly if the cat was all right. Hannah would have liked that cat. Perhaps he could get her one, if she did well on some school tests. It could keep her company on days he was out.

The yellow tape disappeared in his rear view window, and he smiled, hands shaking with the fever. It became more intense each time, like a fire growing. It would need more and more to keep burning, like any fire.

That was when he saw her. She stood by a corner, taking in the neighbourhood, her hair glistening in the sun. He knew her. And as she half turned, recognition flashed over her face also. Her eyes looked sad still.

He sped up, and as realisation dawned on her, fear shone in her face and he smiled again.

II

Dark, blue eyes.

She recognised them at once. The stranger that had passed the previous crime scene. Here he was again, at a new crime scene. Dark, blue eyes.

He came at her just as she realised what it meant, a terrible excitement radiating from his face. Killer. The face of a killer.

She had no sense of time or movement. All she could see were the eyes, locked with her own, mirrors of souls. She didn't hear the warning being cried out, or the running steps.

And then she flew. Her body screamed in delight and slight pain, upwards and upwards until it was the ground that seemed to come up and greet her with overwhelming pain. She lost her breath for the second time when something warm landed on top of her and rolled off. The car shrieked and hissed and quickly faded away. BMW, she noticed. Red. Burning red.

For a moment her mind seemed unable to decide to stay conscious or not, flickering back and forth until finally settling on awake. Distantly, Grissom's voice called her name, drowned by the pounding of her heart. Her hip seemed to vibrate with pain and she could almost feel bruises forming.

"Sara? Sara? Sara?"

"It's him. I saw him…. At the other crime scene," she muttered through clenched teeth. The pain began to lessen as she fought to get on her feet. Grissom's gentle hands were suddenly on her, guiding her up. Dizziness assaulted her, and she nearly fell.

"Sara?" Grissom was nearly crushing her in his firm grip, his face so close she could feel his breath. His eyes seemed to devour her whole and she shivered.

"Just got the wind knocked out of me," she muttered. "I'm okay."

Still, he did not release her, but his glance shifted to where the car had vanished and dust gathered, eyes glittering.

Up, up, up went the dust, flying towards the impossible sky, reaching for what it could not have. Up, up, up, and then the wind failed.

Down it came.


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Her head was pounding fiercely, eating away at any sensible thoughts. She had several ugly bruises, but no serious damage had been done. Not a high price to pay for a lead - a red BMW with a blue-eyed driver. So why did she feel so cold?

"I heard what happened."

She looked up to see Warrick in the doorway, looking at her with obvious concern. She tried to smile, but it became a grimace.

"I'm fine. Grissom drove me to the hospital and I'm officially off the hook," she replied. "Any leads on the car?"

"We're gathering a list of all sold BMWs in Nevada the last few years. It will take time to narrow it down by colour."

"I know it's him, Warrick," she said forcefully, then bit her lip. She didn't want to think about his eyes. Normal, deep-blue eyes, shining with madness and something that could only be evil.

"You should go home," Warrick said gently. She looked down, unwilling to face the concern radiating from his face. She was fine. She was.

"Yes, you should," Grissom added, appearing behind Warrick. "You were ordered to rest, as I recall."

"They ordered you to rest too," she countered tensely. He sent her a slightly displeased look.

"You two should both go home," Catherine said forcefully, joining the small gathering. "Gil, if Conrad caches you around, he'll force a leave of absence on you."

Grissom started to say, something, but she sent him a hard look.

"Or I will," she added, steel in her voice. "Go home."

"The tribe has spoken," Nick added as he joined them. "I have the list you wanted, Catherine."

"Thank you," she cut in before Grissom could say anything. The trio disappeared, leaving Grissom and Sara and an uncomfortable silence.

There seemed nothing to say, and too much to say. Finally, Sara grabbed her jacket and brushed past him.

"Sara?" he called after her.

"What?"

"You shouldn't drive," he said quietly. "I'll take you."

II

Mark stared into flames in his small fireplace, trying to feel the fever. It wasn't there. He was cold, not warm, and angry, not euphoric. He hadn't killed. He had a fire, but not a kill.

The fever was in the blood now, not in the flames.

He hadn't killed her. Hadn't seen her blood spill, her life die away.

Frustration gnawed at him, every heartbeat a second too long. He'd given the investigators a lead unintentionally. He'd tried to kill and failed. Again. He was not used to such bitter pills to swallow. Life had been easy. The fire had been easy.

What if they caught him?

He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. They could not catch him. He decided who lived or died. They could not catch him. He had to know what they knew. Who of his old friends was close to the CSI?

"Dad?"

"Yes, Hannah?"

"Could you read me a story?"

He smiled as he pulled her up on his lap, rubbing her shoulders gently.

"Of course," he said warmly, reaching for the book on the table. She squirmed in delight, her slender hand so small in his grip. So pale, blue veins visible through the thin layer of skin.

The fever was in the blood, singing to him, singing, singing.

He smiled.

II

He wasn't sure what awoke him. Perhaps it was the quiet breathing; perhaps it was the sense that he was not alone.

For a moment he wondered where he was. This wasn't his bed, and it was more comfortable than his couch.

Sara's couch. Of course.

He'd insisted on staying to wake her every two hours to be on the safe side. Head injuries, no matter how small, should be kept an eye on. And he had wanted to make sure she slept and didn't stay up working on the case like he would.

What time was it?

His feet made contact with something soft as he began to move to get up.

"Sara?" he asked into the blackness.

"I'm here," she breathed. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he could make out her shape hutched at the end of the sofa.

"You okay?"

"I just couldn't sleep. I keep thinking about his eyes."

"We'll catch him," he promised and hoped it would be true.

"He looked so normal, Grissom. But it was him. He killed Joanne Harris and Steve Johns and nearly you…"

"A mind can be evil without being abnormal, Sara."

She nodded slightly, knowing it to be true. But knowing something was not always the same as realising the implications. He'd seen realisation dawn on so many as they came face to face with the cruelest streaks of humanity, and it was never pleasant.

"I… Um… You want some tea?" he offered hesitantly, before he realised he had no idea if she even had tea.

She shook her head and bit her lip slightly, looking down. She looked pale in the darkness, pale and tired. His heart leaped painfully.

"Lie down," he said quietly, surprising even himself. She looked up, shadows playing across her face.

"Lie down," he insisted again, and finally she complied, stretching out next to him. Her hair tickled his chin as she nestled against him, and he lifted an arm to rest on her shoulder. He could almost feel her heartbeats through her skin, echoing his own.

Gradually, her breathing slowed, her eyes closed and her face lost the edge of exhaustion. She slept so quietly, her breaths barely audible. She was beautiful.

He tried to stay awake, but the silence filled his body, void of pain or exhaustion. A warm haze took over his mind, edging out all other things.

He slept.

II

She slept.

Mark watched her from the shadows, fingering his cold car keys. The car would have to go. He had friends in the police; he could have one of them report it stolen as of a few days ago.

The fires would end. He didn't need them; the fever was not there. A new murder without fire would not be linked to the others. He could distract them with new murders. The fires would be forgotten. He would upstage them, drive the investigation elsewhere. It would all work.

And then he would kill Gill Grissom and the women with such sad eyes. He remembered her eyes, meeting his without hesitation.

Beauty. There was much beauty in eyes. He wondered idly if the beauty vanished when life did, or if it lingered behind. Perhaps he could find out.

His blood sang and he shivered in joy. He had failed today, but there was always tomorrow and the day after. Always another chance.

Always another pair of eyes.


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

A light fog seeped from the air, shielding the city from the sky and the sky from the city. The thin grey blanket lingered, cool and not unfriendly. Traffic quieted. The sounds drowned as rain fell once more. Rain and fog and gloom.

Sara stared out on the road ahead, trying to keep her thoughts there as well. They struggled against her command, veering off in all other directions. To the comfort of sleeping next to a warm body, embraced throughout the night. To know that the body was Grissom, alive and well.

Yet when she had awoken, he was gone. Only his scent lingered in the air and her pager buzzed excitedly. Grissom's idea of an alarm clock.

What made it more troublesome was the fact that she was not sure if she was angry or relieved. Wrapped in darkness, unspoken of, the moment of solace was a precious thing, protected. The way his chest vibrated against her back when he was breathing slowly, the caress of skin against skin and the tingle therein. Unspoken of, it would remain forever just a moment unspoilt.

Unspoken of, it would never be again.

The car nearly slipped on the wet asphalt, and her concentration returned to the road. Best not to think of it now. They had a killer to catch.

And they would catch him. The alternative was unthinkable. Grissom had nearly died. The alternative could not be.

The car sped on, and the fog started to lift around her. The rain fell away. She pulled up, and exited the car, stride determined. There was a killer to catch out there.

"Sara," Warrick greeted her as she entered. He and Catherine were huddled over a lab report with the energy of someone who had found something vital.

"We got him," Catherine said triumphantly.

"You have?"

"They only sell that shoe from one store in Britain. The British police faxed us a list of American customers."

She waved the paper excitedly. "We matched it to the list of red BMW owners…"

"Carl Hansen," Warrick broke in. "He has several verdicts for violence and one manslaughter. Brass is getting us a warrant."

"Correction – I have a warrant," Brass replied. "Hey, Sara. Has anyone notified Grissom?"

"I've paged him," Catherine replied. "He'll meet us there."

They filed out, Sara trailing behind as a strange sense of coldness swept over her even as the sun brushed past the clouds and poured into the city.

This was not their killer.

Yet, by God, she hoped so.

II

Hannah went to school, he went to work. It took some phone calls and some promises of other favours, but he got his stolen car report dated back. Anything for a friend and a respected member of the community, after all.

He dumped the car by a casino, filled tank and all. An irresistible bait. When he went back an hour later, it was gone. One problem solved.

The other problem filled him with joy as he bought his new car. A blue one, to celebrate his calmness of mind. It smelled of freshness. Hannah would like that, he mused. She always liked new things. He bought her a doll at a nearby store, wrapping it neatly in merry paper.

The man behind him in line gave a knowing smile, father to father, as Mark paid. Fifties. Strong, grey eyes.

He hadn't seen such greyness in colour before. Beautiful. They spoke together a bit, about rising a child and cars. John Linman. Wife dead to cancer.

Such beautiful grey eyes.

Mark left the store humming.

II

There was only one car left at the scene when Grissom finally arrived. Leaning against the hood stood Sara, jaw set.

"Hey," she greeted him with as he exited the car. "Nick is still inside. Warrick and Catherine are talking to our friend Mr. Hansen."

"It's not him," he said flatly.

"How did you know?" she asked quietly.

"The evidence. The shoe was left deliberately. He wouldn't have left it had he not known it couldn't be traced back to him. The car was a mistake. That's where we'll find him"

"The car was a mistake."

"Yes," he ploughed on. "That was an act of impulse. So was the first murder. I went back to the scene. Firs the knocked me down – clearly impulse, a desire to do harm more than anything. The store manager sees it, is gunned down. Impulsively, he continues shooting because to this man, killing is a drug. He has not yet realised the power. Out of bullets, he returns to his first love, the fire."

"Arsonist," she said flatly.

"Yes. But he has discovered something new now. He won't need the fire."

She clearly took this in, brow furrowing. "You think he'll change his M.O?"

He shrugged. "It is possible. He's not done killing, Sara. He will never be done unless we catch him."

"I know," she replied, and now she sounded slightly annoyed. "I saw him, remember? Carl Hansen is a bastard, but he's not the one. He don't have the eyes for it."

She pushed herself off the car, not meeting his eyes. "I better see what's taking Nick so long."

"Sara." He stopped her short with one word and a gentle hand on her shoulder. She met his eyes calmly and some of the tension fell from her. He smiled gently, a smile she returned hesitantly. Her lips parted as he leaned closer, foreheads nearly touching.

"Grissom," Nick said, tearing through the tension as he came out, holding a gun triumphantly.

"Take it in," Grissom ordered, even though he knew it wasn't the gun they were looking for. It wouldn't match the bullets. The killer was still out there, somewhere under the bright sun.

II

The sun shone brightly, and Mark flipped on his sunglasses as he slowed down, nearly coming to a halt. He knew the cars in front of Carl's house all too well. So. They had traced the shoe. He expected they would. And Carl would tell them he had donated it to the church collection that would remember selling it to a homeless man.

Not a journalist. Journalists never got bargains. The seemingly homeless, starving man did. It was a role he had played many times to find stories. Who would fear the dirty man rummaging about in the trash?

As he drove closer, he noticed Grissom was there, eyes on his brunette and intensity radiating from his body.

Mark felt his lips curve into a smile.

_Yet each man kills the thing he loves_

_By each let this be heard,_

_Some do it with a bitter look,_

_Some with a flattering word,_

_The coward does it with a kiss,_

_The brave man with a sword!_

A kiss to kill. Perhaps it was time to tell Grissom just how similar they were, the killer and the investigator…


	9. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

The body of John Linman was found by his neighbour a cool Monday morning. His daughter had gone to the grandparents for the weekend and was spared the sight of her father, skull bashed in and eyes missing.

The same day Carl Hansen was released, no charges put forward. He had been in Britain at the time of the first murder and his gun was not the weapon used for the killings. With nothing to connect him to the crime but a shoe that witnesses could confirm he'd given away, there was no other choice.

Grissom wasn't surprised. He hardly even listened when a disappointed Catherine delivered the news, and hardly batted an eyelid when she told him Ecklie was drooling over a possible high-profile murder of a top lawyer named John Linman.

Until she mentioned the victim's skull had been bashed, and violently at that. His mind seemed to click, and he got up without a word. He could hear Catherine call after him, but he couldn't muster enough concentration to answer her.

Bashed skull… Violence against the mind. A clever killer. Book smart. Well educated.

There was something he was missing. A clue. He could feel it nag away at his brain, just out of reach. Some obvious piece of evidence, just waiting to be given significance.

The envelope smiled whitely against him as he entered his office. He froze, the typed words staring up at him.

Gil Grissom.

He reached for gloves, snapping them on and picking up the flat envelope as if it would bite him. It contained only one sheet, typed and folded neatly.

_And, though I was a soul in pain,_

_My pain I could not feel._

_- The Ballad of Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde_

_Are you in pain, Mr. Grissom? Does my continued freedom trouble you and your fair brunette? I await our next meeting._

A message. A threat. A challenge. He didn't like that Sara was mentioned one bit. Something almost like fear shook his spine, but he refused to let it take hold. This was evidence to be unravelled.

The poem – the poem meant something. He could vaguely recall it, the tale of man convicted of killing his wife.

Were they looking for a widower? A man who had been married and lost – perhaps killed – a wife?

"What are you trying to tell me?" he asked, but only the silence answered him.

II

Hannah sat under the tree and watched the leaves fall.

Some would dive to the earth, some liked to float like a cloud. She liked those leaves. They looked like they could fly. She wanted to fly. It was the only thing she remembered of her mother – warm sun and being lifted high up on strong arms, flying…

Sometimes she tried to cry for her mother, like she remembered her dad had. He had cried a lot, and she had rested her head in his lap every time. He would pat her head and his tears would fall in her hair.

She sometimes wondered if they would make patter in her hair, like the butterflies. Dad didn't call her a butterfly, but a dragonfly. She liked butterflies better. Everyone liked the butterflies. They were beautiful and colourful and felt ticklish in your hand.

A leaf landed by her feet, and she picked it up. It looked beautiful even though she knew it would die soon. Dad had explained death to her. It was like a sleep, only better. No dreams to wake you up screaming. Sometimes, she felt like sleeping like that, Cinderella under the trees, waiting for mum to come back.

She missed her mum a bit. Dad said it was normal, but she had never heard him speaking of missing his mum. She wondered about that sometimes. She had seen pictures of dad's mum and she had been scared. Dad's mum looked scary. Dad's mum was dead and couldn't be scary anymore. Dad had told her.

Dad liked dead people. They were easier to deal with; she had heard him tell a friend once. She wondered if he thought the same thing of mum.

The leaf was dry. She could crush it in her hand if she wanted to. She wondered if leaves dreamt of blood and awoke screaming. She had never heard a leaf scream.

Mum had screamed. She didn't remember, she didn't want to remember, but she knew mum had screamed. A lullaby. Mum had sung a lullaby, and then screamed. A lullaby for mum.

"Hannah!"

She smiled as dad came running towards her. He always looked so happy when he had been out driving and seeing dead people.

Smiling, she got up, and the leaf fell to the earth, spinning.

II

He closed his eyes as the music became a crescendo, diving in below his skin and into his blood. His tired mind embraced the chance to think less, merely feeling the music. There was so much sadness and triumph in it, echoing his own buried feelings.

"Hey, Grissom."

He opened his eyes to meet Sara's, tired and slightly cold. She had seemed distant lately, as days went by and their killer was still out there, waiting to kill again.

"I heard about the letter."

"No fingerprints," he replied. "It's a photocopy of a print."

"Making it harder to determine where it came from," Sara finished, rubbing her temples slightly. "We find the photocopier, we still have to find the printer."

She paused for a moment, staring beyond him. "And meanwhile, he can kill again. Goodnight, Grissom."

She turned as if to leave, and he got up.

"Sara, anger won't help you solve this case. Only the evidence will."

She turned around in a heartbeat, leaning against the doorway. Arms crossed, she stared up at him. He met her hostile gaze calmly, putting a hand on her arm.

"You're angry because you feel frustrated with the case," he explained. Her eyes darkened.

"Is that so?

"You feel we are not getting anywhere…"

"Well, we aren't getting anywhere, are we Grissom?" she snapped. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words escaped. She silenced him effectively with a surprise assault on his lips, and he nearly tripped backwards.

Her arms went around his neck, pulling him roughly against her. He was too dumbfounded to resist, but managed to steady himself with an arm against the wall for support.

Her lips felt like silk gliding over his. He responded to her aggression with gentleness, binging a hand to her face, tenderly caressing her cheek. Her breasts pushed against his chest as she arched against him.

Her lips parted in a soundless gasp, and he deepened the kiss hesitantly, exploring the unfamiliar territory attentively. She tasted slightly of a mild cheese, probably from her lunch, and something entirely her.

The moment seemed to last forever, but finally she broke free, easing out of the embrace and leaving him breathless.

"Good night, Grissom," she said without looking at him, and slipped out quietly. He stared after her, heart pounding fiercely and lips still tingling.

The opera faded away, leaving only silence thundering in his ears.

"Goodnight, Sara," he said and turned off the light.


	10. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

He sat in his warm chair and wondered why he killed.

John's lifeless eyes stared up at him, asking the same. Why kill? The obvious answer was power. He liked power. He always had. His mother had never given him any, he had claimed it. He had let her die, breaking her medicine bottle under his shoe. Power.

No wonder he had let himself forget. Nothing compared to the euphoria. And he had forgotten, forgotten it all. Until Jane died.

Sweet, beloved Jane, crushed by a car as she was protecting Hannah. Dying with a lullaby on her lips and her eyes glistening with tears. Such beautiful eyes.

Her beautiful hair, soiled with blood. Blood. There had been blood everyone.

The next day he had burned down a house and embraced the fever rather than the grief. It was easier.

Carl Hansen had been the only witness to the hit and run, but not even that had been enough to catch the killer. Jane's killer. He'd told Mark he remembered only the eyes. Strong. Judgemental. Remarkable.

The red wine felt dry on his lips. Mark gulped it down impatiently. The joy of killing seemed only but a simmer now, and the urge was driving him mad. The more and elaborately he killed, the more he desired the feeling again. It was as if he had dived into a river of blood and the currents had pulled him under and he was breathing it.

_Who are you killing, Mark? Your mother or your wife's killer?_

He shuddered violently. He knew he should stop the killing. Deep down he knew he should. He'd gotten away with murder, the knowledge should give him enough power for a lifetime. But the urge – the urge would not be stilled.

What would still the urge? Grissom and his lovely Sara Sidle? He'd weaselled the name out of Conrad Ecklie when interviewing the investigator on the John Linman murder. The irony of it was not lost on Mark.

Sara Sidle.

He rose to his feet, staring out at the sky. There were no answers there, as he had once believed. There were no answers anywhere, or so he had thought.

The answer was only complicated if the question was hard. Would Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom still the urge? Only one way to find out..

He left the wine at the table, shining darkly red as the moon escaped from the clouds and hit the glass. Pale reflections.

He didn't see Hannah asleep in the backseat.

He saw only the blood.

II

Sleep wouldn't come to her. She tossed and tossed and tossed, feeling as if ants had crawled into her bed sheets simply to make her life miserable. Finally, she gave up and got up.

The kitchen was quiet, only the fridge humming its steady heartbeat. She leaned against it for a moment, cherishing the cool surface.

She had kissed him.

She had just meant to throw him off balance with his damn assumption of knowing what she was feeling. But when he had kissed her back, she had forgotten everything but the feel of his body against hers and the taste of him.

Damnit.

She rested her forehead against the fridge, staring at her rippled reflection. Grissom would probably say nothing. He was good at that. The man lived in silence and unspoken words.

Damnit, damnit, damnit.

Her eyes fell on the couch. He'd held her so gently, his breath tickling the back of her neck during the night. She could remember waking up at least once, being eased back to sleep by his quiet breathing.

The fridge coughed and died and suddenly, all she could hear was her own breath in the vast darkness.

And then the door slammed open.

II

She didn't answer her phone. The first time, he was merely annoyed, though he knew he shouldn't be. It was late, she was probably sleeping and he was only calling to make sure she came home all right. The second time, worry made its slow way into his mind, jabbing away. The third time he felt something like panic.

She didn't answer her phone.

He tapped a pen against the open pages of his Wilde book, staring at the words while dialling her number once more. There was a message in those words, he was sure. A message that would mean something to him.

She didn't answer her phone. He let it ring endlessly this time, each ring like a stab to the gut.

"Come on, Sara" he pleaded, but there was no answer. For a moment he just stared at the phone, trying to convince himself there was nothing wrong.

"For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die," he cited from the book, and a cold dread fell over him.

No.

But his body had already made the decision and he was halfway to his car before he realised he had even gotten up. The car gleamed in the darkness, and he urged it to life with as much calmness as he could muster.

He drove recklessly, passing cars that were going far too slow. This was Vegas. They should be speeding.

"Come on, come on…"

Finally, he pulled up to be met by darkness. The lights were out at her place and his panic finally took hold. If he felt anything beyond fear, it was buried too deep to surface at all.

The door to her flat was opened and he eased his gun out, gripping it firmly.

"Sara?" he called. He moved further in, and stepped on glass. He froze, his breathing slowing to a painful gasp. Signs of struggle. "Sara!"

The lights flickered on. He blinked against the sudden assault on his eyes. It took him a few moments to adjust and be able to make sense of what he saw.

Glass had been broken and lay scattered. The fridge door was open. A trail of dirt led further into the apartment and he followed it, careful not to step on it. Even now, his mind was all too aware it was evidence.

Catherine answered on the second ring.

"Catherine, I'm at Sara's. Get police and an ambulance now," he snapped, hanging up before she could say anything.

"Sara?"

The bedroom door was cracked open, and as he looked in, he saw Sara's still form on the bed.

For a moment he could not move, paralysed with pain and fear. He gasped painfully just as he saw her chest rise and fall. She was breathing. She was alive.

"Sara?" he asked gently. He winced at the sight of bruises on her arms. The bastard had hurt her. Again.

He froze as dead eyes met his. Dead eyes on Sara's nightstand, meeting his own.

"Hello John Linman," he whispered. One killer. Just one killer.

"Grissom?"

He looked up to see Sara struggle awake, eyes trying to focus on him.

"I'm here," he assured her gently, taking her hand.

"He had a kid, Grissom," she muttered, closing her eyes from a moment. "He came at me, and this girl's voice came… 'What are you doing, daddy?' He…"

She gasped painfully and he clung onto her hand.

"It's all right," he whispered. "You're safe."

She nodded weakly as her eyes closed again. He clung onto her hand like a lifeline, waiting and watching her breathe. Breathing was life.

Catherine found him like that, deadly calm and rage in his eyes.

The fridge hummed on, door open and cold escaping into the dawning morning. The fire in the sky burned as it always did, warming the earth.

The rage of life never died.


	11. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

She remembered Grissom's calm voice always with her, whispering reassurances and what to him must have been words of comfort. How this attack would give them strong evidence against their killer, how she would have broken the case.

She didn't have the strength to punch him.

But behind the words she could see his eyes, gentle, worried and caring. Loving.

She let him do the evidence, taking fibres, photographing her bruises, and feeling the lump at the back of her head. He tried to look calm, but she could see rage in his eyes.

"Why was the fridge door open?" he asked suddenly, scraping under her fingernails.

"I slammed it in his face," she replied, a hint of pride in her voice.

He raised an eyebrow as he held up the tiny swab. "Glitter."

"The girl. She had a bracelet on her, you know, glittering. Butterfly bracelet. He carried me to the bed…" her voice faltered slightly, but she plunged on ahead. "She looked down at me and she touched my hand. I tried to grab for her, but I felt so woozy…"

"You did real good, Sara," he praised her, gathering his kit. "I'm gonna get this to Nick, then I'll be back."

She nodded, watching him retreat and leaving her in the cold, sterile room. A nurse came in, fussing about, uttering reassuring phrases. Sara didn't want to hear them from a nurse. But the words seemed to build up, pounding more and more loudly, dragging her own.

And then she was in the flat again, killer coming at her, thinking she would die. Terror filled her and she wanted to weep. There was no mercy in his eyes. And then… and then…

Arms embraced her, and she slumped against Grissom's chest, clinging to him. He said nothing, merely held her as she cried.

"I'm sorry," she finally muttered, easing away from him some.

"Don't be. You had a nasty shock."

"I don't want to stay here," she whispered.

"Okay." He took her hands in his. "Do you want me to call someone?"

"No."

He nodded, as if expecting it. "Your apartment is still a crime scene. Warrick and Catherine are combing it. You can… Stay with me, if you like."

His offer sounded hesitant, but she nodded nevertheless.

"I'll get Catherine to bring you some clothes. Nick?"

Nick peeked in, and she wiped away some tears. His face was all understanding.

"Get back to the lab and guard Linman's eyes with your life. I don't want Ecklie to get them," Grissom ordered. "That murder is linked with our two, and the eyes appeared on our crime scene."

"Understood. Take care, Sara," Nick said gently. She nodded.

"I'll call Catherine," Grissom told her, putting a hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

And then she was alone again, just her memories and her.

II

"Dad?"

"Got to sleep, Hannah," he told her again, staring into his wine.

"I don't want to."

"Go to bed. Just leave me alone."

"Daddy, please…"

He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look into her eyes. She had seen him. She had seen him ready to kill. She had prevented the kill just with a look. There was no tale he could tell her that would change it. He couldn't explain it away. She might be a child, but she was smart. She had seen death before.

He shivered.

"You left your eyes," she said quietly.

"Please go to bed, Hannah. Please. I need some peace."

She must have finally given in, for moments later he heard her light footsteps up the stairs. He waited till all had fallen silent until he finally let go of the gun he'd been clutching. It fell to the ground with a soft thump, the carpet absorbing most of the sound. Drops of wine had fallen also. Those would never come out. Much like blood.

He clutched his head in his hands, angry, frustrated, hurting. His nose pounded with pain, it was probably covered in blood. He hadn't looked.

But even now, he still desired the kill. Even now…

Tears fell to the carpet. He didn't try to hinder them, but he had no idea why he cried. Not for the dead. Not for the living.

For all those stuck somewhere in between, dying so slowly they thought they still lived.

For him.

He gulped down air as if he was drowning and in desperate need. He wanted to scream, but had not breath, no strength.

"It's okay, daddy," Hannah whispered. He hadn't heard her come, and jerked up at her touch.

"Hannah…" he pleased.

"It's okay," she said, sounding like her mother so much his heart ached. "You can cry, daddy."

He leaned into her hands and cried and cried until there were no tears, only silence and the urge and no peace. Never any peace.

II

Grissom's house seemed very much like him. Large, cool, filled with many a strange thing and the telltale signs of a scientist. Very much like Grissom. She felt intrusive, like the only sound in a silence.

She watched him make tea silently. He didn't look much at her, as if he sensed she needed space. His lack of attention to humans had never ceased to amaze her, yet sometimes he seemed strangely aware of unspoken emotions.

An enigma wrapped in a riddle. She had thought coming to work at the Las Vegas lab would help her understand him, if anything, she understood less.

"Hey," he said softly, handing her a mug. "You look tired."

"Well, you know, big day. Kissed my boss, was targeted by a killer with a kid, almost got killed…" she halted, biting her lip. Grissom looked at her in a way she couldn't decipher, taking off his glasses hesitantly.

"Sara…"

She stared helplessly at him as he edged closer, easing the clutched mug out of her hands and onto the table.

"It's normal," he whispered, lifting a hand to her cheek. She leaned into the caress, his hand warm against her skin. "Studies of victims of violent crime show that…"

"Grissom, could you ever just… Be a human and not a scientist?" she interrupted. He looked confused, as if she had just sprouted into ancient Greek. Even though he could probably speak it perfectly.

"No," he replied quietly. "Science is life. To be human is a science."

His face was open and gentle, no riddles. He believed these things, she realised. Sometimes he reminded her of a child not yet taught how to speak, communicating only through drawings, or in Grissom's case, the science, the cases, the job.

She brushed her thumb over his lips, slowly, teasingly. He leaned into her neck, beginning a trail of kisses upwards that left her breathless. Gently, he eased the pain from her bruises, taking her senses elsewhere. Kissing was a science, she decided, and Grissom knew it well.

He eased away from her after a while, looking slightly flustered.

"I don't want to… You've been through a lot, and… Um… I don't want to…You need to sleep."

Even as he said it, she felt her eyes close, the struggle to stay open too much. She tried to protest, but the words sounded hazy.

"Come on," he said gently, easing her up from the couch. She leaned against him, staring at the floor as they walked. Not bad. He was a good cleaner.

Soft sheets greeted her, and she fell into the offered embrace of the bed. A moment later, she felt soft lips against her own.

"You're safe now," he whispered, but she wondered if he said it to her – or himself. She tried to smile, but already her body felt distant and wouldn't obey. Sleep teetered at the edge of her consciousness, readying to storm in and conquer.

She felt Grissom's eyes on her, as warm as any blanket. Her mind felt blank, peaceful, shielded.

Sleep came.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

The sun gleamed off the yellow crime tape, signalling morning and daylight. No bogeymen, no shadows to hide monsters. Only the telltale signs of their destruction and malice remained.

Warrick felt something much like fear in the pit of his stomach as he surveyed the crime scene. Another CSI attacked. Sara would live. Holly had not.

"Man…" he muttered, shaking his head. Catherine sent him a sympathetic glance, telling him she felt the same thing.

"Anything from the neighbours?" she asked, bagging one of her swabs.

"One thinks she saw a blue car parked outside last night, but she didn't get a good look at it. There are a dozen different tire tracks out there. The power loss was from an overload in a transformer."

"Coincident or planned?"

"Pretty big coincident."

"Yeah," she agreed. "But how would he know the transformer would overload?"

"Connections. This guy drove a BMW. He's got money. Anything useful in here?"

"I got some blood off the fridge door," she announced. "He came in, she slammed the fridge door in his face, goes for a weapon…"

"He intervenes," Warrick cut in. "Slams her to the floor, explaining the blood we found by the counter. He takes his gun now, drags her to the bedroom…"

"Explaining the trail of disturbance," Catherine continued. "She resisted. He throws her on the bed, hard. Puts down the eyes. He's probably carried them in his pocket, explaining the fibre Nick found on them."

"He lifts his gun…."

"But the daughter has followed. Maybe she hid in the car, wondering what her dad was up to so late. She enters the room. 'Daddy, what are you doing?' He freezes."

"Can't kill in front of a child," Warrick finished. "He hits Sara over the head instead and heads out. But he forgets the eyes. John Linman's eyes."

"And Grissom comes."

"She knocked over a plant as she struggled," he observed.

"Yeah. I took some samples of the earth. Our killer might have stepped in it."

He nodded, taking in the evidence, trying not to think about how Sara must have felt.

"Are you all right?" he suddenly asked. Catherine shrugged.

"Brings back memories."

Their glances met, and he saw echoes of grief in her eyes for a moment, entwined with determination and steel.

The shrill sound of a phone tore through the silence, causing Catherine to nearly drop her gloves.

"Catherine," she snapped into the receiving end. "Hey Nick. A-ha… Silk fibre? Our man has expensive taste. Really? All right, get back to me."

She hung up with a loo of slight triumph. "The fibre is silk, colouring pale yellow. From a tie, most likely. We might be able to find out where it came from. It's expensive. Pure silk."

"Yellow silk tie, red BMW… This guy is money. What bugs me… How did he know where Sara lived?"

"Followed her?"

"Dangerous. Who do we know that know people in the police force and the big electricity companies that know how to get confidential information from them?"

"Journalists," they both said at once.

"You check out who on that list of red BMW owners are journalists, have a daughter and money to burn," Catherine directed. Despite her grimness, he could detect the same enthusiasm she always had when she could see a path leading to the killer.

"I'm on it."

He sent her a smile as he walked out, back into the warming sunlight. It felt brighter now. They would catch this guy. He had tried to kill Sara and failed and now the evidence was against him.

No more playing bogeyman. It was time to catch a human.

II

He didn't notice the sunrise.

Grissom stared at the words of Oscar Wilde again and again, as he would any piece of evidence. There was something there, a clue in the words. A little breadcrumb that could lead to the path.

_Some love too little, some too long,_

_Some sell, and others buy;_

_Some do the deed with many tears,_

_And some without a sigh:_

_For each man kills the thing he loves,_

_Yet each man does not die_

"You killed someone you loved, didn't you?" he asked the silence. "Did you cry? Or did you feel nothing?"

"Am I interrupting your conversations with the invisible men?"

He looked up, seeing Sara leaning against the wall, hair still slightly wet from a shower and the smell of freshness about her. There was something so endearing about the sight he could feel a smile creep onto his lips.

"Hey."

"Hey," she replied. "Nice bathroom."

"Thanks," he muttered, and eased his glasses off. "I… umm… Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah. Did you stay up all night?"

"I went to the lab and got all case files," he answered. "The killer knows me."

"What makes you believe that?"

"The evidence." He held up a paper, victim's names written in bold letters. "John Linman had his head bashed. Joanne Harris had her head bashed. Steve Johns did not."

"He wasn't the target," she muttered easing onto the couch next to him.

"No. I was. He took a swing at my head…"

"And mine," she reminded him.

"I know," he said quietly, staring at her bruised temple. "He's telling me a story. He came after you because of me. 'Each man kills the things he loves'."

"Love?"

He nodded ever so slightly, seeing her eyes widen slightly. Her lips parted and he resisted the urge to part them further, to caress her soft lips and claim them as his.

"So who did he kill that he loved?"

Her question interrupted his distraction, and he focussed his attention back onto the paper.

"A wife, perhaps. A child."

"No," she replied. "His eyes were pained when he saw his daughter. I didn't see his face, but his eyes spoke volumes. He couldn't kill a child."

"But he could have killed as a child. 'Some kill their love when they are young'. It's in the poem."

She leaned forward to look, her arm brushing against his. He clenched his jaw as he noticed another bruise around her wrist, dark purple with black specs. He couldn't resist reaching out, taking her wrist gently in his hand.

"Ow," she muttered.

"Sorry."

"Do you believe it?" she asked suddenly.

"What?"

"That each man kills what he loves."

"Sara…" he began, just as the phone gave an insistent ring. He picked it up with a sigh. "Grissom."

Sara studied his face as he spoke, distracting him somewhat. He wondered what she looked for and if it was something he could give her. At least she looked rested, but her eyes were pained

He hung up and smiled. "You didn't only get glitter under your fingernails. You caught some skin, too."

"Lucky me," she muttered darkly.

"Hey." He squeezed her hand gently. "It's evidence we can find him with."

She nodded. "The trail of breadcrumbs leading to the gingerbread house."

"To push the troll into the oven."

"The witch, Grissom. To push the witch into the oven."

"The witch…"

He almost leaped for the papers stacked on the table, sorting through until he found what he was looking for.

"The witch. He called her the witch."

"Who?"

"Helen Clarkson. Her son Mark broke her medicine bottle and she died feverish. Heart failure. It was almost as if she had burnt up from within. The kid was never punished. The evidence was against him, but emotions were stacked high in his favour. I was on the forensics team."

"What happened to him?"

"He was adopted. There was no real family to take him in."

"One that got away," she said, eyes hardening.

He thought of the deaths and the fever and the blood and little Mark, dark blue eyes shining with excitement. One that got away to kill again.

But not Sara. And he was going to make damn sure it would stay that way.

Not all things loved died.


	13. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

He surged upwards, through the light, higher and higher until he screamed and bolted and realised suddenly he was not at all flying, but rather was in his bed.

Daylight was filtering through the window, beginning to crawl up the bed. The house was quiet, much too quiet. Hannah should be up, watching loud cartoons and he would pretend to be annoyed. He never was. Watching her laugh was beautiful.

But the house was quiet.

Her bed was neatly done, her favourite dress missing from the closet. The TV was off, the kitchen was quiet. The water in the pool stirred lazily, but she wasn't there. She wasn't there.

"Hannah?" he called out. "Hannah!"

She wasn't there.

Carl. Carl must have come and taken her. Carl had always envied him Jane.

He drove like a man possessed, not caring what lane or even what road he was on. Carl. Carl, that bastard.

The house was dark as Mark pulled up, and he didn't even bother to kill the engine. He bolted to the door, blood pounding in his ears.

"Mark? The door opened to reveal a very tired Carl, only half dressed.

"Where's Hannah?"

"Hannah's missing?"

"You know she is, you bastard."

Finally, something seemed to register on Carl's face – something much like fear.

"I didn't take her, Mark."

"You always wanted her. You always wanted Jane."

"No, Mark. No."

"Yes."

"No. I protected you. I helped you after Jane died."

"You couldn't identify the driver, you bastard! You let him go!"

"Damn right I did!" Carl hissed. "I covered for you, buddy. I covered for you! Drunk out of your mind. You should never have been driving."

The silence was deafening. Carl continued to talk, but Mark couldn't hear anything but his blood burning. No. No. No. It wasn't so.

He reached for the gun and swung it at Carl, blood spilling onto his hands. Carl fell, and bullets ripped into his chest even as he fell as Mark shot.

"No," Mark hissed. No, no, no. No. "I didn't kill her. I didn't. I loved her. I loved her."

Carl's dead eyes stared up at him, holding all the guilt and grief in the world.

No. No.

The urge did not care. A death was a death, blood was blood. Anything to feed the fever. He stared at the bloody gun, at his hands, at the still running car, at the vanishing stars. They were all dead, the stars, though their light shone on. Alive, yet dead.

Alive, yet dead. He had nothing now. Just the blood. His only solace.

"HANNAH!"

II

"We've got him!"

Catherine marched into the room, paper held high and wide smile on her face, slamming a hand down on the table, nearly causing Nick's water bottle to spill.

"Mark Grundy. Journalist, well off after his adoptive parents left him their estate. Has a daughter named Hannah. Used to drive a red BMW."

"And we have a warrant," Brass added, holding up his own paper.

"Our guy?" Nick asked, dropping his sandwich.

"Only one way to find out," Catherine smirked. "Get moving, boys."

Nick and Warrick exchanged a glance, then leaped to their feet and followed Catherine and Brass out, leaving the breakfast to the mercy of Greg (which probably meant they'd ever see it again).

"Do you want to call Grissom?" Warrick asked in a low voice as he caught up with Catherine.

"No." She shook her head. "He and Sara are way too emotional about this case. We'll call them when we're at the scene."

"Grissom won't be happy."

"Grissom is never happy."

II

There was a flutter in his chest that could have been happiness, or at least relief. Evidence to lead to an arrest, at last. Sara would be safe.

He smiled at her as he picked up the phone and called Catherine.

"Hey, Catherine. The guy we're looking for is Mark…"

"I know!" Catherine snapped at the other end. "Mark Grundy. We're at his house and he's gone with his daughter. Car missing. We've found blood and quite frankly, all the evidence we need to convict him."

"But he's missing," he replied. Sara looked up, her eyes widening slightly.

"We're on it, Grissom," Catherine sounded slightly annoyed, though it as probably not with him. "I'll call you when we have anything."

And with that she was gone and left only the insistent dial tone humming in his ear.

"They're on the same guy," he told Sara, flopping down on the couch again. "He's missing."

"And his daughter?"

"She too."

She stared up at him, eyes dark. Something wet streaked her cheek, something much like tears.

"Hey. The police will find him. We solved the case."

"If that child hadn't been there…" her voice cracked slightly. "Would you have gathered evidence, found the killer and then felt nothing, Grissom? Just another case."

"That's unfair."

"Is it?" She got up, wiping away the tears.

"Yes!" he followed her up, reaching out to take her hand. She flinched away. "Sara, you're a CSI. I would be…"

He fought to find the right word to express how his heart had been ripped to shreds when he thought her hurt, how he couldn't even imagine the pain of her death.

"Devastated," he finished weakly.

"I'm a CSI," she echoed, but with acid in her voice. "Swell. I do hope you bring in someone young and clever to replace me, like I replaced Holly."

"Hey!" He gripped her arm, pulling her closer. "I would not replace you. I would replace a CSI. I would not replace you, Sara."

She looked at him, then closed her eyes. "I'm so tired."

"You can sleep if you like, I can…"

"You can what, Grissom? Watch me sleep? Hold me when I cry?"

"Yes," he whispered and pulled her even closer. Her smell engulfed him, and he cupped her cheek in his hand. Her eyes were still closed as he caressed her skin with his thumb, his other hand going around her waist and locking her to him.

She leaned into the embrace, nestling against him, her breath hot on his neck. They merely stood like that forever, sunlight filling the room with patterns of light.

And then he kissed her, because she was near and warm and Sara, and he wanted to. He kissed her temples, her cheek, her jaw, her lower lip, her nose, her eyelids, her neck and finally, her lips again.

It only took a few seconds until his lips were eagerly parting hers, kissing her deeply and possessively. His hands wandered inside her shirt, to feel her heartbeats against his palm.

She was alive. Every heartbeat was a solace, every heartbeat was hope.

"Sara," he whispered. The name was a caress, a tide raising his heart.

"Griss," she whispered back, lifting her arms and allowing him to lift her shirt up. He marvelled at her exposed skin, winced at her bruises.

Outside, the Earth spun on as it always did, a cradle rocking its children, protecting them from the vast and cold Universe.

And morning became day in the bright, bright sunlight.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

The sun was bright and warm as Hannah stepped off the bus and wondered, not for the first time, if she was doing the Right Thing. Her dad always told her about doing the Right Thing, but he had done a Wrong Thing and if he had done a Wrong Thing, how could he know about the Right Things?

But somewhere inside, her mum spoke to her, and she knew it was a Right Thing.

She got some strange looks as she walked, the child striding so purposely and seriously towards the Las Vegas crime lab. It had taken her a while to find the right bus – first to the woman's apartment and a neighbour telling her the owner was Sara Sidle with the Las Vegas Crime Lab, and then find the bus there.

The change jar jingled in her backpack, almost merrily. She had been saving for a bicycle – a purple one – one that she could pretend to fly on. It seemed hard to fly now, when she remembered blood on dad's hands and fear in pretty Sara's eyes.

Sara looked like mum. A little bit. Mum was dead, but Sara was not.

"Can I help you?"

The man leaned down, taking on the face Hannah called 'see-how-nice-I-am'. People with those face were rarely nice.

"I don't need your help. I'm waiting for someone who works here," she told him curtly.

"I see." The man soured. "And who might that be?"

She merely sent him a look and he finally left, looking very displeased. She stuck her tongue out at his back and dropped down on the nearest chair, fastening the butterfly clasp in her hair tighter. It had seemed very important to dress nice, like when she went to church. Dad always looked at her with joy in his eyes when he saw her dressed up, and would sometimes whisper she looked just like mum in her best dress.

She wondered if he was looking for her and if he was worried. She hoped he wasn't worried. Perhaps he was waiting for her at home with breakfast to tell her everything would be the all right and they would laugh again.

No. That was a fantasy, like cartoons, things she wanted to happen rather than what would. Dad had explained fantasies to her the day she had tried to fly and fallen out the window. He'd kissed her broken arm and told her about the fantasies and how he had fantasies mum would come back, but that it wouldn't happen. It was just a fantasy.

Normal again was a fantasy. She couldn't sit under the tree and watch the butterflies anymore. Dad had done something terrible and he was very, very sorry. He had cried and she had known she had to do something. A Right Thing would correct a Wrong, she knew. The teachers always told her that. Her Right for dad's Wrong.

But deep down she knew that too, was a fantasy. Everything changed when people died. You died a little bit yourself. Dad had died a little bit, but he hadn't started living again. Not really. She had tried to live for him and now she had to do Right for him.

And Sara looked like mum. A little bit.

So she sat there, watching and waiting and crying on the inside.

II

They drove in silence.

She even found herself trying to breathe quietly and to look only the road ahead.

Grissom was tapping his fingers lightly on the wheel as he drove, eyes on the road as wel. He looked focussed and slightly distant in the Grissom way, as if he had never ravished her on his living room couch. As if nothing had happened and nothing had changed.

Except of course that it had.

Her skin still burned from his touch. He had been gentle and intense and warm, and she hadn't felt so alive for a long, long time. And then, of course, as they had merely been lying there in silence, the damn beeper had gone off. It had been Catherine, telling them Carl Hansen had been found dead. Mark was still missing.

Nothing like killing a moment with news about a murder. There was a bitter irony in there somewhere, she was sure.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she lied.

"Sara, maybe you should have stayed at my place while…" he began as they pulled up.

"Grissom, I will glue myself to you if I have to. You're not leaving behind on this one," she replied acidly, jumping out of the Tahoe before he could protest and marching into the lab.

She took a deep breath as she entered, ready to face the others and tell little lies about being just fine.

"Sara Sidle?"

The voice was tiny but she knew it even before she looked. For a moment she couldn't breathe, feeling as if she was back in her own bed, a killer towering over her. She couldn't speak, it was all she cold do to stand upright.

"I'm Hannah," the girl said, holding out a hand. It was Grissom who took it, smiling gently.

"Hey," he said warmly. "I'm Grissom."

The girl looked at him intently. "You're the butterfly."

"The butterfly?"

"Dad has articles about you behind his butterfly painting. He doesn't know I've seen them."

"Who is your dad?"

"She's Mark's kid," Sara finally managed to say, and Grissom set her a look that told her he already knew.

"Are you here about your dad?" he asked gently. Hannah nodded.

"Okay. I'm gonna get a nice lady named Catherine. She has a daughter your age. She's very nice. You want to talk to her about your dad?"

"Okay."

"I'll be right back," he said, still smiling. "Sara?"

"I'll stay here," she managed to get out. He nodded and disappeared into the building, footsteps dying away.

"I like your hair," Hannah offered. "Mum had hair like that."

"Do you miss your mum?"

"Yeah." The kid looked down, fiddling with a butterfly clasp. "I miss dad, too."

The words held all the sadness in the world, much more than any child, or any person for that matter, should carry.

Dad. Mark Grundy, the killer. A dad. She was having a conversation with the daughter of a man who had tried to kill her and Grissom.

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it.

"I'm sorry too," Hannah replied, and took her hand, almost eagerly. The butterfly bracelet shone as sunlight reflected off it. Merry butterflies flying in the sun.

But Hannah's eyes were dark and crying, and Sara could do nothing to chase the pain away.

Darkness in the daylight.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Grissom sat in his quiet office and stared at his spider crawl back and forth, the arachnid as anxious as he felt. Was he the hunter or the hunted? The line seemed so blurred it was enough to make even his hairs stand on end. Somewhere out there was Mark Grundy, the bastard who had nearly killed Sara. Waiting to be caught or waiting to catch?

He slowly loosened his grip on his glasses, realising he had nearly crushed them. Catherine had threatened to handcuff both him and Sara to a car if either of them went near the evidence and had managed to get Nick and Warrick to swear to do the same. He knew she was just trying to save them trauma and keep the evidence process free of claims of bias (though that would probably arise anyway), but it was driving him slowly mad.

And somewhere in a cold room sat Hannah and Sara and Catherine. He wondered what they talked about.

"Hey boss!" Greg peeked in, looking quite cheerful. "Exiled to your ivory tower, huh?"

"Can I help you, Greg?"

"Actually, I can help you. That analysis on the envelope the poem was delivered in came back. It had spores on it."

"Spores?"

Greg nodded. "It's from Dendrobium bigibbum, the Cooktown orchid. Someone who'd been in recent contact with it handled that envelope. He didn't leave fingerprints, but spores fell into it, probably from his hair."

Grissom finally looked up.

"It's native to the tropical parts of Australia," Greg went on, looking extremely pleased with himself. "I checked where you would find them here in Vegas…"

Grissom was already up and heading out the door. He knew where the orchids were.

"Don't mention it!" Greg called after him.

He almost made it to the door.

"Ahem," a voice said forcefully and Warrick stepped out of the shadows.

"Did Catherine set you to baby-sit me or something?"

"I believe she used the phrase 'make sure he doesn't run off like a headless chicken'."

"I'm your supervisor."

"But Catherine knows where I live."

They stared at each other. Finally, Grissom shook his head in resignation.

"Fine. But I'm driving."

"Where are we going?"

"To chase orchids."

II

"Hannah, we really need to find your father," Catherine said gently. Sara could tell she was trying hard not to sound impatient or frustrated from the slight tension in her face.

"He should be home," Hannah answered again. She fiddled slightly with her backpack. "He was asleep when I left."

"Is there anywhere he likes to go?"

"He goes to Carl sometimes," Hannah said hopefully. She looked to Sara, seeking some strange comfort in a victim of her own father. "And sometimes he just drives."

Catherine leaned back in her chair as Brass entered, giving a small wave.

"I'll be right back."

"Yeah," Sara replied, watching the two disappear down the hall. Hannah immediately moved closer, still clutching her backpack as if it was all she had. Perhaps it was.

"Dad is in a lot of trouble, isn't he?"

"He will be in more trouble if we don't find him, Hannah."

The kid nodded, eyes downcast.

"Hey Hannah… Is there somewhere you like to go? Where your dad knows you like to go?"

As she asked it, she suddenly realised it was the question she should have asked at the beginning. Mark wasn't hiding. Mark was looking for his daughter, as any father would.

"By the butterflies."

"And where are the butterflies?"

"It's a secret," Hannah whispered. She leaned forward conspiratorially. "I can tell you if you promise not to tell anyone."

"Can you tell Jim and Catherine too?"

"Do I have to? It won't be a secret anymore."

"It's really important, Hannah."

"Okay."

The child nodded, just as Catherine and Brass came walking into the room again, followed by the Sheriff.

"It has white flowers. Mum grew up with white flowers. That's why dad showed it to me."

Catherine met Sara's eyes, echoing the same sorrow.

Flowers and butterflies and death.

II

A leaf fell from the tree, spinning slightly in the wind as it fell against the earth. Leaves in the wind. That was all life was, Mark thought bitterly and stared down at his hands.

The blood was still there. He wanted nothing more than to wash it away, to sit clean and warm by the fireplace, to read to Hannah while the stars winked merrily outside.

But Hannah hadn't been here, and now he stared at the white orchids with despair. They were blooming, as they had when Hannah had been here last. She had been so happy, among the flowers and butterflies. Always with the butterflies.

Once, they had all been so happy. Jane and Hannah and him, a little family.

He fiddled with the gun, that too bloodied by Carl's death. There was one bullet left in it. One bullet. One kill. One last fever.

"Drop the gun, Mark."

He looked up to see Grissom and some other investigator approach, guns drawn.

"Without the brunette today, Grissom?"

"Drop the gun."

"Why?"

"For you daughter."

"So she can see me like this? I'd rather die. Or perhaps I will shoot you." He lifted the gun, aiming at Grissom. The man didn't even flinch.

"Drop the gun, Mark."

"No. Come on, Grissom, you want to kill me."

"What I want is to see you behind bars for life," Grissom replied. He didn't even hesitate at the answer, as if there was no urge to kill at all.

"It will never be over, you know."

"Yes, it will be."

Mark heard the incoming sirens, saw the cars pulling up. The trigger didn't resist, it pulled backwards as softly as a knife through butter and a bullet through flesh.

He hadn't meant to shoot, but somewhere in his mind he desired to anyway. One more kill. They would shoot back, and he would die as the fever rose. Dying in the urge. Symmetric. Perfect.

And then, over the sirens and the gunshot, he heard her cry.

"DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!"

The fever boiled, becoming a hard pit in his stomach, draining all the joy, feeding the pain. Hannah. No. She shouldn't be there. She shouldn't….

He lifted his face against the sky and screamed; screamed and screamed until bullets slammed into his body. The pain rose like a tide. Never had he thought dying could be this painful. Something that had to be guilt stabbed at his heart until it seemed unable to take anymore.

The scream died and suddenly all he could see was the night sky, so dark and beautiful. But there were no stars. No light.

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaad!"

The sound tuned out and left a deafening silence as he stared and stared. Under him, his body crumbled and fell like a sack of potatoes.

The ground was soft. Grass and flowers, he could feel and then even the feelings vanished. One last heartbeat. One last breath.

And then that too, was gone and there was nothing.


	16. Epilogue

Epilogue

The warm water cascaded down her back, almost scolding hot. She leaned against the wall, wondering if the water could wash away Hannah's screams or the cold dread of her own memories.

Mark was dead. But the feeling of his dark eyes tearing into hers was not. It was still there, along with the bruises and the fear and the slight dent in her fridge door. She wondered if it would ever go away.

Her apartment was no longer a crime scene, yet she hadn't driven there. She had driven to Grissom's place. To gather her clothes, she had told herself. To take one shower before she had to wash away the stench of fear at her own place.

She heard the door open faintly. It was Grissom, she knew, finished with whatever had held him up at the lab.

"Sara?" she heard him call.

"I'm here," she answered over the running water, and the bathroom door opened. She didn't turn around.

Moments later, she felt his arms encircle her. He hadn't even undressed, and the water quickly soaked his clothes.

"It's over," he whispered, and she shook her head. "Sara, it's over. We got him."

"And little Hannah Grundy will have nightmares for the rest of her life," she replied, feeling tears sting in her eyes. Child services had come, of course. Hannah hadn't said a word since she had seen her father's blood spill over the green grass and white flowers. Not even a good foster home could ever erase that.

Mark might have killed his daughter by dying.

Not if she could help it. She had no idea what she could possibly do, but there had to be something. Kids were tough. Hannah would survive.

But surviving wasn't the same as living.

Grissom said nothing. There was nothing to say. He just held her, eyes never leaving her face.

"I should go home," she muttered.

"Don't."

She wanted to ask him what she meant to him, but for now, that one word was enough. He didn't want her to go and she didn't want to either.

She just nodded and clung to him, not caring about the water running over her face. Perhaps she cried, she wasn't sure.

He titled her head upwards and kissed her gently, just one touch of lips to lips. She let out a frustrated groan, and pulled his head down to nearly crush his mouth against hers.

The new pace was frantic, the kiss deep and hard. It edged away the pain and the grief and the memory of Hannah's dark eyes. For a little while. Solace.

The moment wouldn't last. The hot water would run out and he couldn't kiss her forever. Another murder would be committed, and they would have to go to work again. Another day would kill the night and chase away the stars. The sun would dawn. The moment couldn't last.

But for now, it was enough.


End file.
